


a Not Good Day

by whitchry9



Series: my name is connor, i'm the autistic sent by cyberlife [2]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Autistic Character, Autistic Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Dissociation, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Meltdown, aka your local autistic projects on fav characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-20
Updated: 2018-07-20
Packaged: 2019-06-13 13:15:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15365478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whitchry9/pseuds/whitchry9
Summary: The sound level in the precinct was 89 decibels, Connor's stress level was 38%, and he very much wanted to go home.





	a Not Good Day

**Author's Note:**

> As always, your autistic experience might vary.
> 
> Chris Miller is a good boy who deserves nice things.

It was a Not Good Day.

 

Connor liked thinking about things in terms of capital letters. It gave the statement a semblance of importance. It was something Hank did, a common thing from his adolescence, and Connor wasn’t the best at assimilating for nothing. At least half of his mannerisms had been absorbed from Hank, which… wasn’t ideal. He probably needed other friends.

 

But it was a Not Good Day, capital letters and all, and Connor wanted to go home.

 

He wanted Sumo to lay on him, the pressure of the big dog soothing all the receptors that lay just underneath his artificial skin. He wanted Hank to put on music that would fill the house. (And yes, Connor could just listen to music directly, but it wasn’t the same.) He wanted to stim with his coin and the tangle he’d recently bought himself with one of his paychecks.

Barring all those options, he would settle for everyone to stop talking.

 

The office was undergoing minor construction, taking out the android charging stations in favour of adding more desks in for the android officers, who could charge there, or choose to charge when they went home instead. This involved the occasional use of power tools, which shot the decibel level up to around 100. Despite the use of power tools being only occasional, for some reason the volume level escalated, with everyone speaking louder to be heard over each other, but of course they only had to do that because everyone else was talking louder than normal. It was infuriating.

 

The sound level in the office was currently at 89 decibels, similar to a personal stereo, according to the chart Connor had referenced. The chart claimed that a quiet office had a noise level of about 50 decibels, but a police station was never really quiet, so Connor amended that to 65 decibels, just louder than an air conditioner. (He wasn’t sure how close to the air conditioner you had to be for it to sound that loud. It was disappointing the chart was so imprecise. He would have looked up a different chart if he wasn’t devoting so much processing power to keeping his stress levels down.)

Decibel levels followed a logarithmic scale, which meant that the sound of the office was more than four times louder than normal.

Hence the Not Good Day.

 

Hank glanced across the desk at him with sympathy. “Getting to you?”

Connor hated to admit it, but there was no point lying to Hank. He nodded.

“Can’t you turn your ears off?” Hank suggested.

Connor frowned at him. “Turning my audio processors off would be more trouble than it’s worth.”

“Headphones?” he offered.

Connor shook his head. “My hearing is too acute.”

“Bummer. Want to head out early for lunch? They might be done by the time we get back.”

It was 10:47am. Too early to consider it. Connor shook his head.

 

The handheld drill fired up again and Connor winced as the ambient noise rose to 103 decibels. He resisted the urge to cover his ears, knowing that it wouldn’t actually help that much.

 

Hank stood up, grabbed the coat off the back of his chair, and moved over to Connor’s desk. He gestured for him to get up, but didn’t try speaking over the loud noise. He also didn’t try to touch him, which Connor appreciated, because he felt uneasy at the thought of it.

 

Connor did cover his ears as they made their way out of the station, which lowered the amount of noise that reached his audio processors by 3 decibels. Hardly worth it.

 

Outside was quieter, even if there were other unpleasant things for Connor to deal with. The sun was shining brightly, the smell of the city assaulted him, and the foot traffic passing by on the sidewalk was irritating him in a way he couldn’t explain.

Shouldn’t his eyes adjust to the light? Why was it still so bright out?

 

Hank poked something into his hand. Sunglasses.

“Put em on,” he said. “I can see you squinting.”

Connor frowned, but slid the sunglasses on his face. They helped.

 

He couldn’t do much about the smell though, or the people rushing around them.

“Come on,” Hank said, gesturing for Connor to follow him. “Might as well grab lunch while we’re out here.”

10:52am was still too early for lunch, but Connor would allow this kindness.

 

He followed behind Hank, his hands itching with some unnamed feeling. He wasn’t sure what exactly it was, or even how to describe it. He stared at them, feeling somewhat detached.

 

Hank led them to Chicken Feed, which had thankfully gotten its food hygiene license renewed, which meant it was one less thing for Connor to worry about. Sure, it was still extremely unhealthy, but Connor no longer had to worry about Hank getting food poisoning.

 

Hank ordered for himself, asked Connor if he wanted anything (the answer was no, the answer was always no) and they waited for their food.

“Feeling any better?” Hank asked him.

Connor looked up from staring at his hands. “What?”

“Are you feeling any better?”

Connor didn’t know how to answer that.

Hank sighed. “Why don’t you go sit down,” he suggested, nodding towards a nearby bench.

 

Connor trudged over, feeling tired despite a full charge, and sat down. He set his hands on his lap, still staring at them. Maybe something was wrong with them, and that was why he felt so disconnected.

He started a diagnostic scan and waited for it to run, staring at his hands the whole time.

 

He noticed Hank sitting down beside him, making small talk. Responses were not required from Connor.

 

The diagnostic came back clear except for elevated stress levels, 42% for no apparent reason. Connor dismissed the popup window.

 

There was a hand on his shoulder and Connor couldn’t help but wince.

It was removed.

“Sorry.”

Hank. Of course.

“Tried calling your name but it didn’t seem like you were listening. You doing okay?”

 

“I am functioning adequately,” Connor replied.

“That’s some robo-talk,” Hank said affectionately. “How are you actually doing?”

 

Connor looked up at him.

“I… don’t know,” he admitted. “The diagnostic shows everything within normal parameters, but my stress levels are elevated, and I’m feeling a level of detachment from my body.”

Hank scanned him up and down, something that Connor couldn’t recognize on his face. Concern maybe?

“You want to head home?” he offered. “Dip out of work early?”

 

That thought shot Connor’s stress level up to 49%.

Hank glanced at the LED on Connor’s head. Was it yellow or red?

“Or not,” he amended.

“I would like to go back to the office and continue working,” Connor told him.

Hank considered him for a moment and then nodded. “Alright. But if you need a break or anything, let me know. We can work from home today.”

 

Connor didn’t tell him that they couldn’t work from home, that there were sensitive documents contained on the DPD servers that shouldn’t leave the premises, but he also knew that sometimes Hank took home case files, and Connor had copied electronic versions on more than one occasion.

 

Connor followed Hank back to the precinct. The ambient noise level was down to 74 decibels, which was still above normal, but better than before. Additionally, the light was less painful and the smells were more manageable. Burnt coffee was the prevailing odour, which Connor had grown used to.

 

Best of all, there was no sign of continued construction. Connor didn’t think it had been completed, but he also wasn’t going to question it.

He slid Hank’s sunglasses onto his half of the desk and opened up the file he had been trying to work on before the whole thing had started going south.

 

By 12:49pm, the ambient noise level had returned to normal at 63 decibels, and a number of the other detectives had left for lunch. Chris Miller was still in the office, working on a report that Connor could have read if he had tried to, but it would have been rude. Fowler was on the phone in his office, and Connor could have heard the conversation if he had tried to, but it also would have been rude. Glass walls did not make for a soundproof office, which Connor thought was an oversight.

 

“Lieutenant, I should remind you that you have a mandatory appointment with the department psychologist at 1pm,” Connor said, as the alert popped up in his vision exactly ten minutes before the appointment was set to start.

Hank looked at him. “I ain’t going to that, I’ll reschedule.”

“You have already rescheduled it three times. Captain Fowler reminded you last time you rescheduled that it was necessary for you to continue on active duty. If you don’t go, you’ll be suspended.”

Hank huffed. “I don’t wanna leave you when you’re like this.”

Connor tilted his head. “Like what?”

Hank rolled his eyes. “Don’t make me say it.”

“I don’t know what you’re referring to,” Connor replied. He honestly didn’t know.

“Upset, or overwhelmed, or whatever it is you call it. You’ve been on yellow ever since we got back from lunch.”

 

Connor considered it. His stress levels were still at 38%, which was better than before, but still above his workplace average. “The noise level was bothering me, but it’s back to baseline levels. I will be fine.”

 

Hank swore under his breath. Connor wasn’t sure if he knew it was audible. He also wasn’t sure if it would be audible to anyone but an android.

 

“You need me, you come find me, got it? I don’t need to spend my time in there wondering if you’re freaking out or something. Gonna be hellish enough as it is.”

Connor nodded. “Promise.”

“Yeah. Promise,” Hank echoed. “Good.”

 

He shot one last look at Connor as he headed off down the hallway, with an expression that Connor couldn’t even begin to decipher.

His power level was at 96%, so why did he feel exhausted?

 

He turned his attention back to the case file at hand.

 

At 1:09pm, three officers returned from their lunch break and the sound level increased. The same thing happened at 1:12pm, and then at 1:18pm, and at 1:21pm, the construction workers returned.

 

Connor’s stress levels shot up to 46%. He forced himself to focus. Nothing had happened. Maybe nothing would happen. Maybe they were going to clean up their equipment and head out and everything would be fine, Connor could get back to work, the day could proceed as normal, and later they would go home and everything would be _fine._

With a loud whine, the sound level shot up to 98 decibels. Connor’s stress level also shot up, to 59%, and he couldn’t help the noise that escaped him. He covered his ears, despite knowing it wouldn’t help, and squeezed his eyes shut, like eliminating one sense would somehow help the others. He slid out of his chair and under his desk, somehow desperately hoping it would also muffle the sound, but it didn’t. He didn’t want to be here anymore. He wanted to be at home, with Sumo, where the ambient sound level was 34 decibels, but went up to 39 decibels when Sumo let out a ‘boof’. He wanted Hank, and the deep pressure of Sumo draped across him, and the tangle that he could picture on the kitchen table where he left it.

 

Stress levels 68%.

 

Connor pressed his arms against his head, desperately trying to block out the noise. If nothing else, the pressure was good. Could he make enough pressure to hurt himself? Would that accidentally happen if he wasn’t careful?

 

“Connor?”

 

The ambient noise had dropped to 87 decibels. The drilling had stopped. Connor didn’t open his eyes or uncover his ears. He thought he might come apart if he did.

 

“Connor?”

 

Something touched his hand, but didn’t try to move it from where it was clasped above his head. His upper arms were still pressed against his ears, blocking out as much sound as possible, but it wasn’t enough.

His fingers took it. It was familiar somehow.

 

“I’m just gonna sit right here Connor. Tina got them to stop drilling, and it’s going to quiet down in here for you. Let me know if you need anything.”

 

Connor didn’t reply, couldn’t. His fingers explored the object that had been placed in them. It was a tangle, but not his tangle, because his was still on the kitchen table at Hank’s house. Home. Their home.

 

The ambient noise dropped to 69 decibels, and kept falling, eventually settling around 52 decibels. Connor’s stress levels also fell, though not in a linear relationship. He probably could have figured out the exact formula, but he didn’t want to. He did spend a few minutes thinking about it though, his fingers working through the tangle while his stress levels continued to drop.

 

At 41%, Connor opened his eyes. It wasn’t as bright as he expected. He was under his desk, which he remembered. Sitting a few feet away from him, also on the floor, was Chris Miller. He smiled a little when he saw Connor looking, but didn’t say anything.

 

Connor peeled his arms away from his head. The noise level didn’t change much, but the lack of pressure made him feel empty and hollow.

He tried not to think about it, and studied the tangle that had been placed in his hands instead.

It wasn’t his, he knew that much. The one he’d left on the kitchen table was green, yellow, black, and clear, but the one in his hands looked like it had been adorned with paint splatters. It looked like something Markus had made.

 

“Like it?” Chris asked, quiet enough that it didn’t startle Connor.

Still unable to find words, Connor nodded.

“Tina went to get Hank. He should be here soon. Is there anything I can do for you?”

Connor didn’t know how to answer that without words, so he settled for shaking his head.

 

His hands still felt like they weren’t part of him, like there was someone else using them to play with the tangle in his lap. He tried not to think about what that meant.

 

A shadow in front of the desk.

“Aw, Connor,” Hank sighed.

Connor couldn’t tell what emotion Hank was expressing. He often expressed multiple emotions simultaneously, sometimes even contradictory ones, and Connor couldn’t devote the energy needed to try and figure it out right then.

(He hoped it wasn’t pity. He didn’t think it would be, but he worried.)

 

“Tina said they started drilling again and you slid under the desk like Sumo does in a thunderstorm.”

Connor doubted that Tina said it like that, because as far as he knew, she had never met Sumo or experienced his fear of thunderstorms that frequently led to him hiding underneath Hank’s bed.

 

Behind Hank, Chris nodded. “As soon as I realized what happened, I got them to stop drilling and sent most of the officers down the hall. Number three.”

“And the tangle? That one isn’t his.”

“Ah… it might have been in my desk. In case. Number five.”

 

Something in Connor’s chest loosens a bit at that. Chris had read the pamphlet, memorized the guidelines, and had gotten Connor a tangle in case he ever needed it.

(Connor would have to think of something to do to thank him.)

 

Hank patted Chris on the shoulder, said something to him in a low tone that Connor could have heard if he tried, but he didn’t. He twisted the tangle up and then unfolded it.

 

Hank turned his attention back to Connor.

“Words still rebooting?”

Hank knew that wasn’t how it worked, but it was easier for him to say, so Connor just nodded.

“Wanna head home?”

Connor looked up at him. His LED flashed as he sent a text to Hank’s phone. Hank rolled his eyes when it buzzed, but pulled it out of his pocket and squinted at the screen.

“No, Fowler said it’s fine. I went to the appointment after all, however briefly, and you take priority. I can finish it tomorrow or the day after or any other day after that.”

Connor couldn’t tell if he was lying or not, but decided he didn’t care. He wanted to go home.

 

He inched out from under the desk, both Chris and Hank taking care to step back so they weren’t in his way. When he got to his feet, the thirium that had pooled in his legs didn’t want to go against gravity, and his thirium pump struggled for a moment. A human would have been lightheaded, maybe even passed out, but Connor was fine.

 

Hank moved closer. “Shit you just got pale. Okay?”

Connor nodded. Maybe he was a little lightheaded, but it would pass.

 

He held out the tangle that was wrapped between his fingers, offering it back to Chris.

He shook his head. “Nah man, it’s yours.”

Connor looked between him and Hank.

 

“You heard him,” Hank said. “Let me just grab my coat and we can go.”

While Hank darted around the desk, Connor looked at Chris, LED flashing for a second, and his phone buzzed with a message.

 

_Thank you._

Hank slid the sunglasses right onto Connor’s face for him, his hands both wrapped up in the tangle, as Chris smiled. “No problem. See you tomorrow.”

 

Connor nodded, and trailed after Hank out of the precinct.

 

The ride home was quiet, around 42 decibels, and Connor spent most of it with his eyes closed, legs folded under him in an attempt to provide the pressure he was seeking, and the tangle in between his fingers. He loved the paint splatters on this one, but it wasn’t textured like the one at home was. Connor couldn’t decide what he liked better.

 

At home, Connor headed straight for the kitchen table to grab his tangle before throwing himself on the couch.

 

“Sumo, up,” Hank said, and Sumo didn’t have to be asked twice. His feet dug in a bit, which might have hurt if Connor had skin, but he didn’t. Sumo arranged himself so he was draped over most of Connor’s body, and laid down.

 

Connor hummed. It was good.

 

Around him, Hank was moving, putting on music at a low level, kicking aside one of Sumo’s toys and swearing when he realized it was slobber covered. Connor grinned at that and scratched Sumo’s ear. Sumo sighed, hot breath on Connor’s face. Connor made a note to look into some sort of dental hygiene for Sumo later. But for now, he settled into the couch, turned off some of his less needed functions, and took a break.

 

Hank called it napping. It definitely wasn’t.

 

Later, when he resumed normal functions, he would review the case he was supposed to be working on, help Hank make dinner, and take Sumo for a walk. But for now, there was deep pressure, two tangles in one of his hands while the other pet Sumo, and soft music surrounding him.

 

A Better Day.

**Author's Note:**

> In case it isn't clear, Chris Miller is referencing the bullet points in the pamphlet Hank handed out in the last fic.


End file.
